


The Ballad of Viktor Krum: Stranger Thanfiction Remix

by sgt_majorette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Ficlet, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-30
Updated: 2008-07-30
Packaged: 2018-10-27 08:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10805895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgt_majorette/pseuds/sgt_majorette
Summary: Khan Krum drank the blood of his enemies from a silvered skull. It was a long time ago, however, and even then it was more a symbolic gesture. But it's still not wise to mess with Clan Krum.





	The Ballad of Viktor Krum: Stranger Thanfiction Remix

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: This story is actually part of my Viktor Krum universe, remixed as a companion piece to ThanFiction’s DAYD, Ch. 17, because I am  a _complete_ canon whore.  


* * *

The black-winged hawk flies over the city, circling. Deep down in the dungeon hall, the black-robed figures gather. In their midst, a hawk is seen, not a black-winged bird, but Valja Sokolova, daughter of the hawk clan, warlords of the Rhodopes, in her grey cloak, woven of the hair of the wild wolf, and of stinging nettle. Calmly she stood, spinning with her long carved spindle a fine thread.

“You have murdered my son, Viktor Krum. I have come for him.”

A high, breathless voice spoke up. “The _tiniest_ misunderstanding, perhaps? Madame Krum, your son gave aid and comfort to the enemies of the Ministry! Murder! No, no, no! Besides, strictly speaking, you know, he isn’t _dead_. The Kiss, you know…:

Valja Sokolova was spinning a fine thread, but it was not silk, nor was it flax. With a movement like the cracking of a whip, she pointed the spindle at the girlish voice, and the thread flew like the lash of the whip, and the high, foolish voice became a scream of agony as hair became a halo of flame and the plump, toad-faced woman fell writhing to the ground. Another flick of the spindle and her screams became inaudible, all the more horrible to see.

“My son, I say again. Bring him to me.”

The wasted, dead-eyed, twitching, drooling thing they dragged out was barely recognizable as what had once been Quidditch star Viktor Krum. Slowly Valja Sokolova closed her eyes. Her head fell backward as if her throat had been slashed; no blood poured from a wound, but a song began to spill from her lips. And the first word was not a word, but it meant the same in any language in which a woman sings: no despair, no pleading, no hope – only pain. Dementors were drawn to the sound as jackals to the scent of fresh blood. The note went on and on until the Dementors began to tremble in their cloaks of shadow. They could not but feed, but there was no nourishment.

_My son, my only son, my child, he is gone. I cannot weep, the black river overflows with other women’s tears. I cannot mourn, I have no place to take my prayers. I would shed my blood that his shade might drink and be sated._

The Dementors drank deep, and they starved. The robes of shadow sank to the floor in piles of threadbare rags, and pearly vapor rose from the debris. Valja Sokolova gathered the vapor in her hand, and this she spun; and when she had spun it all into one skein, she knelt by her son and straightened his limbs. She took the thread and wrapped it round and round until he was completely shrouded. A black-winged hawk flew three times around the shrouded figure, and then both vanished.

At Harry Potter’s wedding to the pretty redheaded Chaser, and at Hermione Granger’s to the redhead’s brother, Viktor Krum, leaning heavily on an ornately carved wolf’s head cane, his smile a bit vague and his speech slightly halting, appeared on the arm of his wife, a woman of stern, archaic beauty who put many in mind of the beautiful but terrible Valja Sokolova.


End file.
